Reynnar. His body draped over hers, a shield. Every inch of him soaked up the violence meant for her, his fangs bared in a snarl. Bruises bloomed across his skin, deep purple and sickly green under the flickering light, glistening with sweat. Every hit twisted his expression, pain ravaging him, but even in the midstof it all, his eyes—gods, his eyes—they never left hers, cutting through everything: the pain, the chaos, the fear.
Tears burned trails down her cheeks, each one an ode to the tangled mess of sorrow, gratitude, and a deep, gnawing despair within her. In that brief, fragile moment, Elara could almost swear his heartbeat echoed against hers. But then it was ripped away as they dragged him off her.
In seconds, chains—not of iron or steel, but of writhing vines—burst forth from the ground beneath them, binding every captive in the room. With a mere gesture, Malak reclaimed dominion over the space. He could have wielded that power from the beginning, Elara realized with a jolt. They were merely toying with them, likely bored with their routine guard duties and seeking amusement by allowing the captives a glimmer of hope in a fight. Her fists clenched as she took in the smug smirks and heard the mocking cackles of the guards, even as some looked decidedly worse for wear.
“You’ll bleed for that,” Malak bit out. Blood smeared his sneer, dripping from his nose—broken, no doubt, by Reynnar’s fist. It should’ve felt like a win, but any sense of triumph was strangled by the vines ensnaring her, tightening with every twitch, every breath.
Aoife's voice cut across the room. “Bí socair nó gheobhaidh tú do bhascadh!25”
Her words sounded as though she meant to guide and save. But it only fueled the panic coiling tighter inside Elara. The vines slithered like snakes, creeping higher, winding around her throat, squeezing until her breath cut off. Her vision blurred, narrowing to a tunnel, and at the end of it, a raised boot, poised like the final judge and executioner.
The last thing Elara saw before darkness claimed her wasn't the hope of rescue or a face filled with concern—it was Malak, and the boot that swung down to meet the side of her head.
Chapter 35
A breath stirred the shadows, warm and tender, a whisper of life against the stillness. The faintest touch followed, a brush of fingers that barely grazed Elara’s skin. Her hair shifted, swept back with a touch so delicate it almost didn’t feel real.
The darkness pressed close, but it wasn’t threatening. It held her, soft and weightless, a quiet presence that curled through her senses. It filled the space with warmth, seeping into the cracks of her broken body. The quiet no longer seemed boundless. It did not seek to crush her under its weight. Instead, it held her.
And though she couldn't place it, couldn’t fully grasp what it meant, it felt like a vow—like something was drawing near, something beyond the pain—something that would come, as if solely for her.
Chapter 36
The world returned to Elara in fragments. Not the sharp, piercing pain she expected, but a dull awareness, like waking from a long, dreamless sleep.
She blinked, slowly, disoriented. There should’ve been pain—a deep, agonizing throb that came with every breath, every twitch of her muscles. She knew she’d been beaten, should have been aching from head to toe. But there was…nothing.
Nothing but the cold. The biting chill of the floor pressed against her back, sending a numbing shiver through her body.
Her eyes fluttered open, but the light wasn’t harsh, more like a distant glow seeping through her eyelids. She blinked again, sluggish, as her hands moved instinctively to her body. Her fingers traced over her clothes—clean. Unfamiliar. Her skin, scrubbed, smooth, untouched by the grime and sweat of before.
Her pulse quickened, panic flaring. Someone hadundressedher, washed her. Changed her. While she’d been unconscious. The thought made her sick, acid rising in her throat as her breaths came faster.
She tried to move, rolling her shoulders, shifting her weight.
Everything felt… muted.
That’s when it hit her—someone had given her something.
A tonic, maybe. Something to numb the pain.
Elara grimaced, pushing herself up.
"You’re awake."
That voice. The low, smug drawl that made her stomach turn. Her heart kicked against her ribs as her eyes shot open, blurry shapes coming into focus. She was in the throne room, laid out like a broken offering at the base of the dais. Osin stood over her.
"You were quite the sight, lying there in the dirt," he continued, amusement lacing his voice. "Though you clean up well, I must admit. We couldn't have you meeting your fate looking so disheveled. Don’t worry," Osin whispered, "I was gentle."
Elara’s teeth clenched, an ache shooting through her jaw. Her gaze locked with Osin’s ice-blue eyes—cold and unfeeling, like the surface of a frozen lake, dangerous in its stillness. He stood tall, dressed in pristine black, the picture of refined menace. He was every bit the monster beneath his refined veneer—a stunning, lethal creature masquerading as a gentleman.
Her pulse thrummed against the frilly lavender fabric of her gown, its surface a sea of delicate periwinkle petals and ridiculous layers of pouf and billow.
Osin’s cold features softened into a polite smile, the kind that sent a chill racing down her spine. "It has come to my attention that you've engaged in some unsanctioned activities in the Pit." He raised a pale brow. "Even developed a soft spot for those . . .things. But what troubles me most, is that you would betray your own kind to help them."
Osin’s grip was firm as he yanked Elara to her feet, her legs wobbling, the sudden movement sending a fresh wave of dizziness through her. Her eyes dropped to the ground, heart sinking when she saw them—soft satin slippers in place of her boots. A deliberate choice. So she couldn’t run.
He released her, stepping back with a theatrical sigh, his expression falling into an exaggerated mask of disappointment. “It seems you’ve forgotten your place once again. But, fear not, I've devised the perfect reminder for you.” With a casual flick of his wrist, a snap echoed through the space, and the grand iron doors flew open, unleashing a flood of Legionnaires into the room. And there, amidst the sea of uniforms, stood Dario.
